


Blackwood Academy

by annagarny



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-09
Updated: 2012-06-06
Packaged: 2017-11-03 08:03:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/379160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annagarny/pseuds/annagarny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Professor Sherlock Holmes, 23, was a prodigy. Graduating from Cambridge at 19 with a double PhD in Biology and Chemistry he was immediately swamped with offers of research positions and grants for independent studies. </p>
<p>Instead, he became a teacher.</p>
<p>If he didn’t have the highest passing grades of any teacher in the country, he would have been fired before the end of his first term at Blackwood, but he gets results with his methods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Sherlock bloody Holmes, that’s who.”

His ears were burning, and not for the first time. Of course, the fact that the other teachers talked about him behind his back was certainly not news to Professor Holmes, but it was still unpleasant to hear your supposed colleagues speak ill of you. He paused, just outside the staff-room door, and listened for a moment.

“Hey, say what you will, the man gets results. Every single one of his students was in the top 5% for A levels in both of his subjects last year.” Greg Lestrade, the House Master for the sixth year and the man in charge of the boarding students, a geography teacher who also coached the senior football and cricket teams, was, as usual, the only one to defend him.

“He’s got half the fifth formers terrified that they won’t pass his ridiculous tests! These kids just want to take his subjects so they can get into a good Uni, and half of them won’t even be admitted because of his cryptic bloody criteria!”

Okay, that was enough. His criteria are hardly cryptic, thank-you-very-much. Just because an under-qualified English teacher and the failed actress of a Drama coach couldn’t discern what those criteria were didn’t make the systems he used any less valid.

“Afternoon, Sally. Oh, Mr Anderson. You’re here, too.”

“Professor Anderson, as you well know, Holmes.”

“Don’t condescend to me, Anderson, and maybe I’ll stop condescending to you.” It’s idle banter, as usual, and Sherlock is losing interest already. He’s the youngest teacher at this school, and likely will remain as such for another five years. Not that he cares, or even particularly notices.

‘Professor’ Anderson has never hidden his distaste at a twenty year old being assigned a teaching post, and every year since Sherlock’s employment, has submitted complaint after complaint about his conduct to the institution’s administrators. 

Fortunately for Sherlock, the results from his classes speak louder than any complaints from an English teacher whose pupils refer to him as ‘Professor Tosspot’ behind his back. That and, despite his abrasive nature and sometimes intimidating methods, most of Sherlock’s students genuinely like him, not least because he’s the youngest member of the teaching staff by a solid decade.

At least Sally Donovan has kept her complaints mostly to herself, although, now that she and Anderson are sleeping together it’s likely that she’ll voice her displeasure at Holmes’ methods more readily. 

Sherlock turns his attention to the grey-haired Geography teacher who is sipping a cup of tea and working on his second sandwich. The term might not start for another three days, but most of the teaching staff are on site this week for pre-term preparations, and Sherlock is trying to schedule the interviews for the students who have requested his classes.

“Lestrade, did you have anyone who isn’t a complete bone-headed twit in your fifth form classes last year?”

“Well, there’s Moran, he’s bright and he’s got a real flair for chemistry. Jackson and Turner are quick, as well, but they both need a bit of structure to stop them going off the rails. Moriarty, well he’s too smart for his own good, but he knows the material.”

“Yes, yes, good. What about the girls? I’m sick of having a class full of boys; it’s impossible to manage. Blackwood’s been co-educational for almost five years, now... surely we have some girls who want to take Chemistry or Biology for their A levels?”

“I was getting to the girls, Holmes, if you’d let me finish. Michaela Butler and Greer Williams are probably the only ones who will express an interest. Although, little Molly Hooper has been doing great things in Mike Stamford’s classes - why don’t you ask him who you should interview?”

“I did, this morning. He told me to ask you because he doesn’t know what I’m looking for.”

“Fair enough. Neither do I, most of the time. You had lunch, yet?”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at that. It’s well known that he doesn’t eat the slop that the school kitchen calls ‘food’, even after the Jamie Oliver-esque makeover the kitchens had been given the year before.

“Right, right, he-who-never-eats. There are two scholarship cases, too: a girl called Asher Reilly and a boy, John Watson. They’re both coming in from other schools as part of the A level program, they’re entering straight at sixth-form level. From the look of their transcripts you should grant them both interviews.”

“And the rest of the applicants?”

“As per usual, Holmes, it’s your prerogative. You’ve been managing your department well enough for three years, I’m hardly going to intervene now.”

Sherlock nodded, still ignoring the whispers coming from the next table, and the dark looks Donovan and Anderson threw him every few sentences.

“Alright. Does the new admin staff know my process? They’re prepared to shuffle schedules as I let them know who qualifies?”

“More than ready, Holmes. After the debacle last year, both the Chemistry and Biology classes for the sixth formers have been given the same schedule block, so chopping and changing students is just a matter of switching names. There have been new guidelines issued, though – you’ll have to accept a minimum of fifteen. Nothing like your second year when you only wanted eight and Gregson had to strong-arm you into taking on the extra four to make up the minimum class size. Dimmock just wants advance notice of more than three minutes if you're sending him an extra body to deal with.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes at that, but knows that he can’t really argue. The Education Department does actually care about minimum class sizes for a reason, apparently, although that reason baffles Holmes. He’s found that he gets the best of the students in groups of less than ten, but he can work with fifteen.

“Did you talk to Dimmock about his opinions on who should be allowed admittance?” Lestrade asks - there are, after all, two members of the senior Science faculty, not that Sherlock likes to acknowledge his opposite.

“Yes, and he told me the same thing as last year, check his attendance records and read the reports. I wish he’d let me install that camera in his classroom, it would make life so much easier…”

“We’ve been over this, Sherlock, no surveillance equipment on campus. Look, the boarders are arriving in the morning - that includes at least half the kids I’ve recommended and a few wild-cards. Come up to the boarding-house in the morning and I can get you some face-time with each of them. Mrs Hudson might even let you use her sitting room for the interviews if you ask nicely enough.”

“Oh, alright. When are they arriving?”

“Between nine and noon, come up during lunch and see if you can stop yourself from insulting them all about how boring their holidays must have been before you tell them they’re too stupid to possibly keep up in your classes.”

“Oh ha, ha, Lestrade. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Looking forward to it, Holmes.”

Sherlock left the staff room, ignoring the glares directed at his back by the two conspirators in the corner, and made his way back to his own home just off-campus.

 

Blackwood Academy is located in the heart of London, just near Hyde Park. It’s one of the more prestigious public schools in England, and enrolments are based on academic merit. It does not matter if you are Prince of a small country (or even a large one), if you can’t pass the examinations, you don’t get in. You cannot buy your way into Blackwood, you cannot coerce your way in and it doesn’t matter if four generations of your family went there before you did – you don’t pass the exams, you don’t get enrolled.

The criteria are strict, but the admissions process, over the last fifty or so years, has become more fluid. The examinations are no longer purely written essays and ‘answer the questions’, now the entire curriculum is looked at – students are interviewed, sometimes observed in their existing school environments. And there are also a number of ex-staff from Blackwood who are now employed at other schools around the country, and recommendations from these teachers are taken very seriously.

John Watson is one of the students being admitted on the basis of a recommendation from an ex-staff member – he has a good academic record, not fantastic, but solid. He also plays cricket and football, he’s an exceptional spin-bowler and a good defender. But none of these things are the reason for his name being put forward for one of the coveted full-boarding scholarships at Blackwood Academy.

No, the fact that he’s been sent to school in the same steadily-more-tattered uniforms for the last eighteen months, that he tries (and fails) to hide the bruises from the buillies, the marks that his mother doesn’t notice, too busy dealing with her confused, borderline alcoholic older daughter (whose ‘gay phase’ is getting ‘out of control’).

He’s not a charity case, he’s a rescue… and it’s high time somebody started to take care of him. 


	2. Chapter 2

John had only been to London twice, and the first time had been for a funeral when he was just six. He remembers the train journey, tall buildings, getting briefly separated from his mother in Kings’ Cross Station and then people in black outfits wanting to hug him. It had been terrifying and he had spent the majority of the weekend clinging to Harry’s hand while his parents talked to other grown-ups.

That was the weekend that Harry, then ten, had tried her first glass of wine that was smuggled to her by an older cousin.

The second time had been when his English teacher, Mrs Martin, had taken her class on a trip to the West End to see a small production of The Taming of the Shrew.

And the third trip was, again, courtesy of Mrs Martin. Though this time he was staying for rather a longer time than a funeral or a play.

Somehow he’d been awarded a full boarding scholarship to Blackwood Academy – a school he’d only heard whispers of in relation to high-achievers and members of the royal family attending.  When he’d discovered that Mrs Martin had put his name forward he had actually hugged her before turning bright pink and thanking her properly, embarrassed at the show of emotion.

Today, he was on a train heading to Kings’ Cross Station where he would be met by the House Master, according to the sheaf of papers that had arrived in the mail a month ago. He’d been advised to bring casual clothes, jeans, jumpers, t-shirts, running shoes and a certain amount of personal effects, whilst being reassured that his uniform would be issued upon arrival at the school itself.

To say that John was nervous was a gross understatement. Harry was away at University in Manchester, living with a girlfriend, and causing their parents no end of heartache. He was glad to escape the house, escape the arguments and the constant feeling of having to watch every word he said, lest his father take it the wrong way and turn on him.  But John was still nervous about the prospect of this new school – an entirely new environment – where he would be a charity case, no less.

Mrs Martin had assured him that there was no distinction between scholarship students and those who paid fees; uniforms were issued by the school, technology was strictly monitored and controlled – he didn’t even need to bring his own phone as Blackwood would issue him a top-of-the-line model to go with the laptop and tablet computer he’d have waiting for him in his dorm.

He’d get to keep those, too.

As the train pulled into the station John shouldered his backpack, wondering yet again if he’d brought enough things with him and thinking if it would be worth the trouble to call his mother to have extra things sent – or if he should just use his bank card and buy anything he’d forgotten.

Who knew, really. In all honesty, he half expected that his mother wouldn’t even notice that he was gone because she was so wrapped up in everything Harry did – all her dramas – and where Harry didn’t occupy her time, John’s father’s presence was enough to fill the gaps. The youngest member of the family was often overlooked and he tried not to resent it too much, although it was hard.

The house-master, Mr Lestrade, was easy enough to spot in his burgundy and green rugby jumper with _‘BLACKWOOD’_ written across his shoulders. John walked straight up to him and tapped his shoulder.

 “Mr Lestrade, sir? I’m John Watson.”

“Watson! Fantastic. Didn’t happen to meet a girl by the name of Asher on the trip down, did you?”

“Uh, no, sir. I mostly read my book.”

“Oh, never mind, I’m sure she’ll find us. Got everything you’ll need? I trust you packed your football boots?”

“Yes, sir. Though my actual football is still on the neighbours’ roof.”

Mr Lestrade laughed out loud at that, and decided then and there that he was going to like this kid.

“Sounds like the kind of thing I used to get up to. Ah! We have a lost looking teenage girl – that must be Asher. Miss Reilly!” he shouted the last part and the tall, blonde girl whipped around, frowning slightly until Mr Lestrade held a piece of cardboard John hadn’t noticed up in the air. It had _‘BLACKWOOD ACADEMY MEETING POINT’_ written on it in green Sharpie. As soon as she saw it, the girls’ expression cleared. She turned and began to walk towards them, pulling a large black suitcase behind her.

“Asher Reilly? I’m Mr Lestrade, the sixth form house-master, and you two are the only pick-ups I’ve got to deal with today because you’re the only new sixers – the rest can make their own way to the school. Right. You can both manage your luggage? Great. Let’s get a cab and I can get you into your rooms so Mrs Hudson can start fussing about your uniforms.”

 John allowed himself to be hustled through the crowded station, keeping track of Mr Lestrade was easy, the shock of silver hair and the green-and-burgundy jumper made sure of that. Before he really registered that this was London, the place he’d been dreaming of moving to since he was ten, he’d been bundled into a cab and the other new student was squashed into the seat next to him, her suitcase bumping against his ankle as Mr Lestrade closed the door and gave the address to the cabbie.

The place they pulled up at half an hour later looked, to John’s eyes, just like every other block of flats they’d passed along the series of roads they’d taken to get here. The door was plain black, it was three storeys tall and there were four steps leading to the entrance. The only differentiating feature was a small bronze plaque with _“BLACKWOOD ACADEMY”_ engraved on it, attached to the door.

Mr Lestrade led the way, pulling an identity card out of his pocket and scanning it against a small black reader with an LED on the top. The LED flashed red, once, then turned solid green and the door clicked – he held it open and gestured for his new students to precede him into the entrance.

And, as per usual, those new students came to a stuttering halt barely five steps into the entryway.

It was a standard reaction.

In fact, the only person Greg Lestrade had ever seen greet the entrance of Blackwood Academy with anything less than awe was, predictably, Sherlock Holmes. Then again, Greg had been taken to the Holmes Estate one Christmas at the insistence of Sherlock’s older brother (something had been muttered about Sherlock needing friends and Greg performing that duty admirably) and upon seeing the sprawling manor house covered in a light dusting of snow, Greg had understood why the Atrium was less than impressive.

But to two eighteen year olds, one of whom had never been further from home than she was this very day, it was enough to make their mouths fall open in awe. 

During the late nineties, Blackwood Academy had relocated from a semi-renovated series of row houses to a temporary site while a major remodel had taken place. The current campus had taken the better part of eighteen months to complete and is, simply put, brilliant. No other space but the Atrium really advertises this brilliance in quite such a manner.

From the front door you step into a large space with a vaulted ceiling almost twenty feet above your head, and in the center of the ceiling there is a huge domed skylight that refracts light all the way down, bouncing off the glass railings either side of the twin, curved, marble staircases up either side of the lobby.

These staircases draw the eye upwards and you find yourself looking at three levels of glass-fronted balconies with bronze hand-rails, and the light that bounces around creates the illusion of the space extending into the very sky. Inevitably you twist around and find that the façade of the building has been retained, and there are four levels of windows of varying opacity allowing more light to flood the place.

There’s a reason it’s always capitalized as the Atrium, and never just ‘the atrium’.

“Alright, that’s enough gawking. Up you go, second floor, I’ll show you where the sixth formers live.”


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock was in one of the empty sixth-form dormitories, reclining on the small sofa against one wall, the backs of his knees on the arm and his eyes closed.

 

The door opened and a tall, skinny boy with unruly brown hair poked his head around the corner, hesitant about entering the room he’d been assigned while the notoriously prickly professor appeared to be sleeping on his couch.

 

“Michael, don’t just stand there, you’ll injure your shoulder if you don’t put that bag down. Your bed is the one by the window – both of your roommates are new scholarship cases so you get first pick. That one actually gets mobile reception so you’ll be able to talk to your girlfriend… until you break up in October, anyway.”

 

Ignoring the jibe about his girlfriend, Mike hiked his duffel bag up higher on his shoulder and entered the room proper, dropping his laptop case and schoolbag on the bed before kicking his duffel underneath it, determined not to do any actual unpacking until he absolutely had to.

 

“Mrs Hudson won’t be doing her first inspections until Monday, Michael, you’ve got plenty of time.” Professor Holmes opened his eyes and tilted his head so that he could meet Michael’s gaze from where he was standing next to his bed, unsure of what the protocol was when a professor was in your dorm, waiting for you, when you arrived at school early. He was saved from voicing his question when Holmes announced his intentions.

 

“Mr Barnes, you expressed an interest in taking my classes this year.”  
“Yes, sir.”  
“I’ve looked at your results from Professor Dimmock and you certainly seem smart enough. Tell me what you did over your break.”

Michael blinked, confused for a moment by the segue, but responded fairly quickly.

“I- I watched a bit of telly, Dr Who and that new show, Game Of Thrones. I read a few books, some historical medical texts and took a look at the books you assigned your classes for this year. My father and I brewed beer together and I learned how to bake with my grandmother.”  
“What about your mother? Did you spend any time with her? I mean, I know you went to Paris, but did you stay with your mother or your aunt, this time?” 

Thankfully, Michael was somewhat immune to Professor Holmes’ omniscience, so he wasn’t shocked that Sherlock had been able to deduce his entire roster of summer activities with a swift glance.

“I spent two weeks with mother in Paris and a week in Champagne with my aunt and my sister.”

“Did you enjoy Paris?”  
“Paris is Paris, it hasn’t changed much in the last half century, I don’t expect it will be any different next time I go back.”

“Good, good. And Champagne?”  
“The only interesting thing about Champagne is the wine that they produce in that region, and I didn’t get to sample nearly enough of it to make the entire week with Sarah and Joanne bearable.”

 

Mike then remembered that he was speaking to a teacher, not one of his friends, and promptly turned scarlet.

  
Sherlock smiled, well, one corner of his mouth turned up and his eyes seemed to catch the light for a moment, before his expression returned to its’ usual blank state.

 

“I’ll see you in the laboratory on Tuesday morning, Michael. Do you have my mobile number?”  
“Yes, sir, it’s listed on your profile.”  
“Text me when your new roommates arrive, I’d like to speak to both of them, as well.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sherlock got to his feet and left the room without another word, and Mike slumped into the couch he’d just vacated, recognising that he’d just passed a very important test and suddenly rather exhausted. Extracting his phone from his pocket he glanced at the time.

Barely noon and he was ready for a lie down. This year was going to be the death of him.

 

>>  
>>>  
>>>>

 

Once Asher had been handed over to Mrs Hudson and the two of them had headed off down the girls’ hallway, Mr Lestrade led John up another set of stairs and into an almost-identical hall, down to the fourth door on the left which was standing partially open.

 

Greg knocked and a voice called out that they could come in, so he pushed the door open and gestured for John to step inside ahead of him.

 

It was quite a big room, for a dormitory, and to John’s eyes it was practically palatial. There were three king-single beds, one beneath the window opposite and one either side of the door, along the walls with a desk at the foot of each. There was another door at the foot of the bed to the left, opposite a small couch at the foot of the bed to the right and as John crossed the threshold a tall, skinny boy in a black t-shirt with the Batman logo on his chest came out of it with a towel over his shoulder – evidently that was the bathroom.

 

“Mike, you’re here. Great. This is John, and there’s another new kid arriving tomorrow – I’m picking him up at Heathrow. As a prefect you get stuck with both of them.”  
“Seriously, Mr Lestrade?”  
“Seriously, Mr Barnes, I’ve got more to deal with than you today, I don’t have time to show him around, so I’m delegating to you.”

“Thanks.” Mike may have rolled his eyes a little, but thankfully he and Greg had a good enough relationship that Lestrade let it slide.

“Not a problem, Barnes. Keep him in line and show him the ropes.”  
“Yes, sir.”

 

Lestrade left the two of them, half-closing the door behind himself and heading back towards his office, glad that he’d had a hand in picking the prefects and had been able to talk the committee into allowing Barnes the title – he was a good kid, in spite of the somewhat patchy disciplinary record.

 

“So, hi. Yeah, Mike Barnes.” Mike held out a hand to the new kid, short, stocky and blonde, with a duffel bag similar to Mike’s that seemed almost empty, compared to the behemoth that Mike was still surreptitiously trying to wedge beneath his bed.

“John Watson, nice to meet you.” John shook his hand, and then gestured to the two empty beds.

“Well, like Lestrade said, the other new kid isn’t arriving until tomorrow, so you get pick of the beds.”

“Oh, okay.” John’s gaze flickered between the two identical king singles, before he selected the one on the left, closest to the bathroom, and dumped his bag on the floor before flopping on the bed itself.

“Anything important I need to know?” he asks as Mike sat down on his own bed, cross-legged and snapping open his backpack, extracting a mobile phone.

“Not really. You’ll have to see Mrs Hudson this afternoon or tomorrow, get your uniform organized. Oh, and Professor Holmes wants to meet you, I should text him.”

Mike’s thumbs danced over the keypad and he sent a message off, his phone dinged a reply barely fifteen seconds later.

“Right- Holmes is on his way up, and I’m off to find my girlfriend. Talk later?”

“Uh, sure.” John was a little lost – who on Earth was Professor Holmes, and why did he want to meet him of all people?

 

Mike left him there, half-smiling as he headed for the girls' dorms, because the new kid had no idea what he was in for when it came to Professor Sherlock Holmes.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock was pleasantly surprised when Mike Barnes sent him a text about one of the new students not too long after he’d left the dormitories. His reply was his usual, swift and he didn’t mince words – he didn’t have any other students to speak to so he was returning immediately to dorm 221, and Barnes had been kind enough to inform him that the third dorm-mate wasn’t due to arrive until the following afternoon – now that Sherlock thought about it he did recall something about the other new student being American.

Ugh.

So he turned around halfway down the stairs and sidestepped the two chatting fourth-formers, taking the steps two at a time and arriving back at the dormitory level in a matter of seconds.

He didn’t even bother to knock on the door, simply twisting the handle and stepping inside, finding a shorter, blonde boy with a golden sun-tan and a recent shoulder injury reclining on the bed closest to the bathroom door.

The boy sat straight up when he realized that the intruder was not another student, rather a teacher, and was halfway to his feet when Sherlock spoke.

"Sit down, John, you don't need to salute me, I'm hardly a military man and don't require that kind of submissive attitude from my students. How was Spain? Did you stay in Barcelona or Madrid?"

John stared at the man, now taking a seat on the bed opposite, taking in everything from the unruly mop of curls to the well-fitted suit and the shiny black leather shoes, before clearing his throat to answer.

"Uh, Barcelona. Not bad."  
"Were the local boys impressed enough with your football skills to let you play with them?"  
"A few, mostly the younger ones, the bigger boys thought I'd end up getting hurt because I'm shorter than them."  
"Hardly your fault, and hardly likely to change, given that you've just turned eighteen, unless you have a late growth spurt sometime this year, and given the diet provided by the kitchens here, highly unlikely. You've expressed an interest in taking my physics class, Mr Watson?"  
"Yes, yes I did, Professor Holmes"

Sherlock was pleased with the immediacy of John's response - this one was smart; he'd barely hesitated to connect the Holmes name to the 'A' level physics class.  
"Why?"  
"Because I want to get decent marks, and I'm good at maths. I liked Physics last year, and when I was offered the scholarship I was told that you're the best teacher in the country, so I'm going to take advantage of that."  
The expression on Sherlock's face could almost have been called a smile, except it was far too self-satisfied to fit that description, if anything, it was a smirk.  
"Take advantage?"  
"You've got a great record, sir. Everyone in your class gets top marks, always have. I figure you must be a brilliant teacher and I'd be an idiot to pass up the opportunity to learn from you."  
By this point, Sherlock was practically preening, but pulled himself together after wallowing for a moment in the heaped-on praises and held out a hand.  
"Your phone, John."  
"Sorry, sir?"  
"Could I please see your mobile phone? And call me Sherlock, I'm barely five years older than you and don't respond to 'sir'."  
"Oh, okay, si-Sherlock. Here." He dug in his pocket and Sherlock was pleased to see a ridge on the denim where the phone sat - just like every other student here this boy was almost surgically attached to his phone, though the unit itself was a little different from what Sherlock had been expecting. It certainly wasn't the phone that had created the imprint against John's thigh.

After he'd handed it over, John gave in to the inevitable. It seemed that offering him the freedom of a first-name basis had broken some kind of wall down, and the question was asked.  
"Uh, si-Sherlock? Who told you that I'd been to Spain for the summer?"  
"Nobody." Sherlock replied, turning the phone over in his hands before swiping a finger across the screen to unlock it.  
"Then how did you know?"  
"I didn't know, I saw."  
"Sorry?"  
Sherlock actually did smile then, an almost feral grin that made John's eyebrows draw together slightly in confusion.  
"I saw, the same way that I saw your football skills and the fact that your father is in the military and your brother recently moved out of home due to some kind of falling out with him."  
"What? How can you possibly know about that?" John was almost defensive, now, crossing his arms over his chest and setting his jaw in a firm line.  
"I saw your holiday in your tan and your duffel bag, your father's occupation in your greeting, your football skills in your shoes and your brother's familial abandonment in your phone?"  
"What? How-"  
"Your tan, combined with the duffel bag from a Spanish designer says holiday, the depth of the tan says the entire summer and the relative expense of the bag says Madrid or Barcelona. The fact that you practically snapped to attention when I walked in, even moving so far as to begin a salute speaks to an authority figure in the military, possibly your mother but most likely your father. You also immediately addressed me as Professor Holmes, rather than 'mister', meaning you've had proper use of titles frilled into you, so a relatively high-ranking military man. The shoes you are wearing are cleverly designed to look like regular school shoes but are manufactured by a sporting-goods company known for their football boots, a brand preferred by most of the professional sportsmen in this country and those who aspire to be like them."  
"Oh. But how did you know about Harry?"  
"Your phone. It's a brand-new model, barely been on the market ten months, but it's not engraved to you - it's addressed to Harry, from 'Pops', a nickname for your father, no doubt, which is why you got the phone when they had the falling out and he left. If he'd left home willingly he'd have kept it, that was why he got it in the first place, keep in touch with the parents and all that but no he got rid of it, gave it to his little brother so he was forced out and didn't want to be in contact with the people he'd left behind."

John stared at him for a few moments before he regained his powers of speech.

"Wow. That was - that was brilliant!"  
"Huh. Not what people usually say." Sherlock told him, tapping the button to re-lock the phone and handing it back to John, neglecting to mention that he'd programmed his mobile phone number into it and sent himself a text in order to acquire John's contact information.  
"What do people usually say?" John asked.  
"Piss off."

Sherlock was somewhat surprised when John laughed at that, and smiled himself, not quite so smug this time but still self-satisfied.

"So, did I get anything wrong?"  
"Well, I did holiday in Spain, but I already told you that. Dad is in the Army, made a colonel last year. I picked out these shoes because they're the same brand as my football boots and I knew they'd be comfortable, and Harry did get that phone for Christmas, gave it to me when the row happened with Dad."  
"Oh, I don't usually get everything right."  
"Harry is short for Harriet."  
"Sister? Sister! I - damn! But the wallpaper-"  
"Harry's also gay."  
"Oh."  
"Yeah. That's why she and Dad had the blazing row and he kicked her out."  
"Right."  
"So, does all of this mean that I can take your class, professor?"

Sherlock considered him for a few moments, before nodding just once.

"Yes, John, you will be in my class. I'll make sure it gets added to your schedule and make sure you bring a spare shirt with you on Monday when we have our first class. Let Mrs Hudson know that you're in my class and she'll make sure you get the right kind of uniforms. I'll speak to you in class."  
"Sure thing, Prof- Sherlock." John changed direction mid-word at a sharp look from the teacher.  
"And try to remember that part, please. Having you lot call me 'Professor Holmes' makes me feel as if I'm in my forties."  
"I'll do my best."

Sherlock got up and left the room, closing the door behind him and making for the stairs again, heading back towards his office, sending an e-mail to the administration department about John Watson and Michael Barnes' inclusion in his Physics class. 

Once the door was shut, John sat back down on his bed, then slid to one side until he was horizontal, feeling strangely exhausted after his encounter with Sherlock Holmes.

He fervently hoped that Physics wasn't scheduled first thing in the morning, especially if Holmes' classes were half as draining as that conversation had been - he'd never make it through the rest of the day after a full hour subjected to the man, not without a proper nap at some point in between.


End file.
